


Light at the end of the tunnel

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: British Military, British Politics, Conspiracy, Darkness, Gen, London, MI5 - Freeform, Politics, tunnels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 00:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20733233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Long Affair challenge for MFU's 55th anniversary.Sent to London to investigate reports of a plan to overthrow the elected government, Illya has to rescue himself from the clutches of subterranean terrors while Napoleon holds the fort.(Based on real events.)





	Light at the end of the tunnel

**Prologue**

To the journalist, it seems like a joke, but it’s anything but funny. In the London flat of a cousin of royalty, he is with a government adviser listening in silence as a newspaper magnate – chairman of a board of several newspapers – propounds a mind-boggling plan to overthrow the elected Labour government. He suggests replacing it with an administration led by the royal personage – a man with experience of governing recalcitrant former colonies.

The adviser rises indignantly, says that the plan amounts to treason and walks out. The royal relation, self-interested and up for it, is surprised and slightly taken aback; but, as if agreeing with the opinion of the departed adviser, he then declines to be involved. “Not yet, anyway,” he amends quietly.

The journalist goes away confirmed in his view that the magnate is an extreme but harmless egotist; the magnate himself rushes away to write an instruction to the editor of his best-selling, but left-wing newspaper, the Daily Mirror.

===============

**A letter**

Alexander Waverly sat looking at the letter before him, his pipe neglected on his desk, his tea cooling, his hand shaking a little.

“… to my Grandfather’s most trusty and valued former Aide, a request for his help and discretion in a most delicate matter…” it began.

The letter, if leaked, would create a scandal of a magnitude to bring down, not just a government but potentially a throne. He read the details again. What had apparently begun as a foolish suggestion by far-right extremists had gathered momentum and implicated several significant individuals – one of whom was particularly significant to the sender of the message. It seemed MI5 and the army were likely to be involved in the conspiracy. Might that mean British UNCLE agents were also involved?

The London office of UNCLE could not be employed here, not if it were possible they had been got at. UNCLE’s dealings with Section Five of British Military Intelligence had always been a little stiff, but always cordial; this was a different matter altogether.

He sat up and reached for his microphone. If it involved military intelligence, it required an intelligent response and impartial agents.

<><> 

“Did this come through the post?” asked Solo, handling the letter with an unwonted reverence before passing it to his partner, who received it with less solemnity.

“Certainly not. Diplomatic channels. Delivered by hand to me personally,” said Waverly. “I don’t have to tell you how important it is not to reveal its contents, or even that it has arrived at all.”

“If this plot is active, it’s treason, surely?” said Kuryakin, looking up from the thick paper with its surprisingly plain heading – a simple red design, lacking any of the flashy gilding of the kind so beloved of business tycoons and megalomaniac heads of state.

“A right-wing plot to undermine and bring down an elected government… one that’s about to be _re_-elected if the polls are correct?” said Solo.

“A coup, in fact,” said Kuryakin emphatically.

Waverly’s eyebrows bristled. “Indeed. I believe that is what is planned.”

His agents blinked and looked at each other, their own eyebrows raised. A coup? In Britain? Such a cool, sensible country. But one that had lost an empire and hadn’t found a role. Maybe it was still looking back and wasn’t cool and sensible any longer.

“A coup that might or might not involve a member of the Family Firm – as I believe they refer to themselves, and as we shall, if necessary, henceforth refer to them.”

“And we are being asked to intervene? How can we?”

<><><> 

**Action**

Their mission: to make a fraternal visit to MI5 as well as UNCLE London. It would all be up front and above board, to discuss matters of shared interest, of national and international importance at election time, and for improved future relations.

Their intention: to find out what was going on and how far any organisation or body – particularly UNCLE London – was implicated, if at all. There would be no unnecessary contact with any department of government – or not obviously – and certainly not with anything, or anyone, higher. But, if at all possible, to put a spoke in any conspiracy.

That was the plan, anyway.

The circumstances of their arrival at Heathrow Airport gave them a first inkling of trouble to come. The plane, instead of making its way to the terminal, remained stationary with others off the end of the runway, and after a while the pilot apologised for the inconvenience and told his fuming passengers that permission to taxi to the terminal was being denied because there was some kind of army training exercise going on. He would keep them informed and, in the meantime, please keep seatbelts fastened.

“Training exercise?” Illya said softly to Napoleon.

Napoleon shrugged. Not impossible, given the dangers associated with terrorist activity in Ireland.

At last, with tempers beginning to fray, the line of planes slowly began to move, one after another, and half an hour later they were inside the terminal where the presence of heavily armed soldiers was a distinctly unusual and alarming sight. They even stood guard over passport control and from time to time examined a passport which slowed everything down and led to more irritation.

Napoleon’s passport was received with indifference and returned, but when Illya’s turn came, the border control officer showed it to the soldier who looked at him hard and before Napoleon could intervene, took him immediately to a side room for interrogation. Napoleon stepped forward and reminded the officers that his colleague had an UNCLE visa and should therefore be accorded the dignity that its diplomatic protection provided. But he was nevertheless refused permission to accompany him.

It appeared to be a military tribunal. The three officers were all middle-aged, highly decorated with wartime medals judging from the ribbons on their chests and, to a man, also decorated with stiff waxed moustaches. Illya repressed an almost overwhelming impulse to laugh. As he sat down, however, a civilian entered. He was not introduced but sat silent beside the army officers who now began to bark aggressive questions at their victim about his nationality, his political affinities and his reasons for entering the United Kingdom.

It was fortunate that Illya _had_ an UNCLE visa because, without it, his expulsion as an undesirable communist alien would almost certainly have been preceded by a humiliating strip-search of his person as well as his baggage. As it was, the style of questioning was far from diplomatic. He therefore remained unusually calm and civil, if terse, in his replies, and naturally withheld the whole truth.

When the questioning turned to his role in UNCLE – which they seemed to know very little about – the civilian’s eyes widened and when the name Alexander Waverly came up, he interrupted and said, “_He_ is your chief?”

“Yes. It was he who arranged for me to join UNCLE – many years ago now.”

“Ah. I see. Gentlemen, a moment, please.” And he withdrew, taking the questioners with him and leaving Illya under the watchful eye of a more junior officer. Illya ignored him and sat relaxed and unmoved. He made no sign of noticing them when they returned, either. Now behaving as if he were as desirable as an unpleasant skin complaint, they disdainfully handed him his passport and curtly dismissed him. He rose and left without making the slightest acknowledgment.

He told Napoleon nothing until they were settled in their hotel and sure of not being bugged. “I’d be interested to know whether the government was aware of that military exercise,” he said, finally.

“They’d have to be informed – give permission – surely? The military can’t take over a civil airport just like that.”

“You’d think so, but I suspect they have done just that. He didn’t know me, but I believe I recognised that civilian.”

“Waverly’s name was very significant to him. Why did it provide more protection than the visa?” said Napoleon.

“No doubt because of his work in high places here forty years ago. But it’s this man’s involvement with the military take-over of the airport that bothers me.” Illya thought for a moment. “He’s a civil servant and if I’m right, he’s very right-wing, obsessively anti-communist; someone who believes that the present Labour government is full of reds.”

“Which ministry?”

“He is now high-ranking in the Service – but not directly involved with either the Home Office or the Ministry of Defence, the ministries involved with airport security.”

“So, you’re saying it really was a practice-run for a coup.”

“Correct. And if it involves the Civil Service, it’s very serious because it is meant to serve every elected government, whatever its colour, and remain impartial. This could be too big for us, Napoleon. I don’t see our way… what do we do?”

“Get invited to some parties, I guess,” said Napoleon semi-facetiously. “Talk to people who are in drink, dig some dirt.”

“I’m sure that will be useful,” said Illya sceptically. “I think I will dig elsewhere – after we’ve made contact with MI5.”

“I’ll go to MI5 – if you went, they might not talk. You go to UNCLE London and see what, if anything, is on their minds.”

<><><> 

Illya, made his way to the London offices of UNCLE pursued by the paranoia that had met his arrival at the airport. Watchful eyes on the slight figure with its distinctive blond hair marked every step he took on his route.

UNCLE London occupied part of a large and ugly building behind Northumberland Avenue where it was overlooked by government buildings. The grand entrance led to the offices of a travel company; the entrance to UNCLE’s domain was through what looked like a tradesmen’s entrance.

Illya found, to his considerable surprise, that he was now regarded there as a somewhat legendary figure and greeted with some warmth. It was such a pleasant change that he even smiled at the young woman on the reception desk and was embarrassed when she blushed.

The British agent who had come down to meet him shook hands enthusiastically and talked local shop all the way to the Chief’s office, where the recently knighted Sir John Raleigh dismissed him. “Thank you, Jack, I’d like to talk to Mr Kuryakin alone if you don’t mind,” he said. “Please, sit down, Illya.”

He directed him to comfortable chairs grouped round a low table where he joined him after summoning tea. “Or would you prefer coffee?... No? Very wise, it’s not very good coffee.”

Tea came, accompanied by four digestive biscuits – the term, cookie, that he’d had to learn in the States didn’t seem appropriate for these – and hungry by now, Illya ate his two perhaps more quickly than manners dictated.

“It’s good to see you again, of course, Illya – but I assume this isn’t a social call. What can I do for you?”

Illya explained the mission in terms of general concern about far-right agitation. Sir John looked surprised, so Illya continued casually, “Mr Waverly, being an Englishman, takes a personal interest so he has been concerned about reports of the level of distrust in the British government, and possible plots against it.”

Raleigh smiled. “It looks more serious than it probably is, Illya. There have been quite vicious attacks on the probity of the Prime Minister and his cabinet ever since he was elected. The far-right is determined to brand him a Soviet spy. It’s absurd but like any lie, if it’s said often enough it sticks – no smoke without fire and all that. But I know the man – he was at Oxford when I was there. He’s more centre-left than left-wing, and anyone less willing to spy for the Soviets it would be hard to find.”

“What about these rumours of a right-wing plot against the government? There is a suspicion that MI5 is involved, along with the military and the Civil Service.”

Raleigh cleared his throat. “We’re keeping our ears open, but I don’t personally believe any such plot would come to anything. It probably exists only in the fevered imaginations of a few aging and quixotic zealots – still tilting at windmills, you know. The people involved have very little public support, of course.”

“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen, sir,” said Illya sharply, impatient with such complacency. “Can you even be sure no-one in UNCLE London has been involved with any right-wing plots?”

“I certainly hope not, indeed I believe not – but, of course, given the type of person attracted to UNCLE employment, one can’t be absolutely certain.”

“But you are checking?”

“It pains me to say so but, yes; we are. We need to be able to continue working here – with whomever fate throws up in government. We’re like the Civil Service in that respect.”

“What about that army exercise at Heathrow?”

“We weren’t informed about it in advance, but we wouldn’t expect to be… how do you know about it?”

Raleigh’s reaction to Illya’s account wasn’t particularly reassuring; he thought the presence of a civil servant – especially one so high-ranking – was enough to give the exercise legitimacy. Illya’s brief detention must have been an aberration.

Thoroughly exasperated, Illya nevertheless thanked him politely before taking his leave. He could only hope that Raleigh was serious about monitoring the situation: but he had just been knighted; he wouldn’t want to rock the boat.

<><> 

Napoleon was unimpressed by the headquarters of MI5. It was an unprepossessing and decidedly run-down building near Hyde Park, very much in need of renovation. He was known by some there and greeted, if not with universal warmth, at least with the courtesy due to an ally. He induced a warmer atmosphere by leading the talk in a general way to shared interests and the current state of relations between themselves and UNCLE. Relaxed by his charm of manner, they became more welcoming, ordered coffee and sat back smiling when it arrived. Sipping the weak but not actively unpleasant brew, Napoleon said idly, “By the way, I was caught up in an army exercise at Heathrow.” He wondered what they knew about it, how it was it organised. It had looked impressively well-planned.

“Mum’s the word, old boy,” they said, touching their noses. “They gave _us_ notice about it, but not the PM or any of his fellow travellers.”

“Fellow travellers? Bad as that?” said Napoleon sympathetically.

“Soviet agents, KGB, some of them – maybe the PM himself. No wonder the country’s going to the dogs. There are constant strikes; everything’s out of control,” they said. “Labour won’t agree to join the Americans in their war, so that alliance is in trouble. We’re a busted flush under this government, old boy.”

“Surely not?”

“Well, we’re doing our best to counter it. Blacklisting reds in the media, extreme vetting of all politicians, that sort of thing.”

“But an election is already happening, I gather. They might be out of office by – tomorrow, isn’t it? Don’t you want to wait for the result?” Napoleon asked.

Labour was well ahead in the polls, they said; something would have to be done – they had files on certain people, and informers in trade unions – the possibility of an energy sector strike. “We’ll soon, you know…” and there was more nose-touching.

There was now a slightly uncomfortable silence as if they were regretting giving away such thoughts even to an American special agent. Even if an apparently sympathetic ally, he was still a foreigner. Napoleon tactfully led talk back to safer channels. By the time he rose to leave, profitable arrangements had been made for sharing information of mutual interest, and further appointments were made to firm up those arrangements.

Warm handshakes, backslapping and smiles were exchanged and, with friendly relations established and an invitation to a party issued and accepted, Napoleon set off to find a belated lunch somewhere.

<><> 

A headline on a newsstand attracted Illya’s attention as he walked under Hungerford Bridge to the tube station. He bought a copy of the Daily Mirror and started to read. Prominent was a report that the newspaper’s Board had sacked the Chairman for trying to subvert editorial independence: he had tried to take over the front page to foment some kind of national uprising.

It seemed the conspirators weren’t having everything their own way. It would be worth meeting the journalist who had written the piece. Using a phone box for cover, he made brief contact with Napoleon to say so, and Napoleon told him he’d had an invitation to an MI5 party that night and not to expect him back till late. Illya then searched one of the massive London telephone directories chained to the shelf, telephoned the Daily Mirror and asked to speak to the journalist.

The offices of the Daily Mirror were in Holborn. Illya took the tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked through to the newspaper offices from there. The tail following his every move wasn’t in the way so far. If it was an MI5 man, it might be hard to shake him – but he had nothing to hide, so he ignored him.

The journalist came down to meet him and suggested adjourning to a nearby pub for a chat over a liquid lunch. Illya, who preferred a solid lunch, was reassured that the pub could provide food – well, bread and cheese, and possibly a pickled onion or two, anyway.

Once they were alone in a quiet corner and a plate of bread and cheese (and pickled onions) had arrived to accompany his beer, Illya asked, “Have other newspaper editors received this kind of instruction?”

His companion shook his head. “Even with their own monomaniac in charge, there are editors who wouldn’t need such an instruction. Look at Rees Mogg at the Times – very anti-Labour and quite pally with the ex-Chairman of our board. He’s hoping to see the Prime Minister out of office and a far-right government in place.”

“I see… so most newspapers aren’t worried by the idea of a coup?”

“Most of the British press is Conservative-supporting, so some would support it, of course. But mostly they assume it’s just right-wing imbeciles being all mouth and trousers.”

“All what?”

“All bluster and no action.”

“What about the army exercise we ran into at the airport?”

“Good point. It’s going to cause ructions when Parliament sits again. You weren’t caught up in that were you? … What happened?”

“Nothing much – an interrogation. I showed them my ID, told them who I worked for and they let me go.”

“A get-out-of-jail-free card, eh?”

“Something like that.” Illya wondered if all journalists spoke in clichés. “There’s something else. There was a civilian sitting in on the interrogation. An anti-communist, someone high up in the Civil Service.”

“At the airport, with the military? Good God.” Illya sat back as the journalist waxed indignant. “People in government are saying they weren’t informed about the exercise. Look, it’s a requirement that, before the army can come to the aid of a civil power like the police, there has to be some kind of formal request and permission.”

He looked around to see if they were overheard. The nearest drinker was several yards away – Illya had clocked him as soon as he followed them into the pub. “If you’re right about the civil servant, it suggests the conspiracy is more serious than a bunch of aging army colonels trying to relive their glory days. But I’d put money on the army backing out of any conspiracy. They swear loyalty not just to the Queen but to her government. The Queen could be the Prime Minister’s greatest asset. They say she gets on well with him.” The journalist brooded over his beer. “I don’t know how much you know… but there’s a rumour going around that someone quite close to the…”

“We heard – that’s why I’m here,” said Illya quickly.

“Who from?”

“Some revelations shouldn’t be aired in a pub,” said Illya speaking in an undertone; he hesitated. “A concerned and unimpeachable source, shall we say?”

“Good God…”

“No, not quite as unimpeachable as that,” said Illya. “I haven’t told you anything, by the way – that’s off the record and not for publication. And, also by the way, I’m being followed so when we part, it’ll be best to leave without me.”

The journalist looked startled, then grinned. “All right. Real cloak-and-dagger stuff, eh? I’m not cut out for that.” He finished his second pint, abandoned the idea of a third and said, “I’ll tell you something else for free – the media have been very successfully fed deliberate lies by the far-right during the election campaign. It sells papers if you prey on people’s fears and insecurities. People believe anything if someone says it with enough confidence. So, I don’t believe in the poll figures… I think this government will be out by tomorrow.” He rose to go back to work. “But even so, take care, old man,” he said and left.

Illya finished the cheese remaining on his plate, leaving most of the pickled onions untouched. He quite liked them, but knew Napoleon would complain when he came near him. He picked up his plate as if to take it to the bar and put it down in front of the man tailing him. “I’m only going back to my hotel,” he said. “You can have the rest of the pickled onions – they’re better for you than potato crisps,” and left.

<><> 

The journalist had bethought himself of another question and, walking back, was in time to see the little UNCLE agent emerging from the pub and being seized, bundled into a car by two large men and driven away. He gulped; cloak and dagger stuff indeed. Who had Kuryakin said he worked for? One of those international organisations with a cosy acronym… UNCLE, that was it.

<><> 

“Sir John, there’s a call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Someone from the Daily Mirror, sir.”

“Oh Lord, now what? All right, put him on.”

Sir John listened with concern. “He definitely didn’t get in willingly, you say? Thank you – that’s very helpful. Did you see where the car was going? Westwards… hm.”

He put the receiver down and picked up his microphone. “Get me Napoleon Solo. He’s in London somewhere.”

…

“Mr Solo? Raleigh here… Yes, he’s been here but I’ve just heard that after he left us, he was abducted … yes, earlier this afternoon… All right. We’ll be expecting you.”

<> 

When Napoleon arrived at the London Headquarters, he listened frowningly to Sir John Raleigh’s report of what the journalist had said. “So, he told him he was being followed. My guess, if it isn’t anyone from here – and it isn’t, I assume? …”

Raleigh shook his head. “It isn’t anyone from here, I can assure you. We’d hardly need to, after all.”

“Then it’s likely to be British Intelligence. And if so, I guess they’ll take him to headquarters in Mayfair, won’t they?”

Sir John nodded unhappily. “Or nearby, anyway. There are several safe houses around there.”

“... Well, that’s awfully convenient,” said Napoleon sardonically employing English understatement, “I’m on my way there this evening. I’ll ask if they’ve seen him.”

<><> 

Finding himself in a small, dark, locked basement room, more like a closet, that smelled like the bilges of a ship, Illya stood up and explored its surfaces. Most of the walls and ceiling were bare, but there was a grating in the floor from which arose the unpleasant smell. Grasping it, he pulled – it was stuck fast, but he persisted until he detected some movement and finally, with one almighty heave of his shoulder muscles, it came free and offered an escape hatch of sorts.

He looked down; the air, though hardly fresh, wasn’t totally foul – just smelly. It looked like an entrance to part of London’s network of subterranean tunnels. Worth a try, but it would be a tight fit. Easing himself into the hole, he hung by his hands and dropped onto ancient brickwork. He slid the grating back into place to baffle them for a bit, whoever they were. Below him somewhere, he could hear water. Cautiously exploring and feeling around in the darkness, his hands found the entrance to a dry tunnel. It seemed to be lined with cables and pipes, which was a hopeful sign. They must go somewhere. Feeling for the tunnel’s curved roof, he bent and began to walk along.

One of London's underground tunnels. Photo by Darmon Richters.

<><> 

Glass in hand, his most charming smile in place, Napoleon chatted his way round the room. There were several men there whose bearing proclaimed a military background, all very happy to talk to him but as it was mainly about glorious battles of the past, he became very bored – the future had arrived, it was time to change the tune, be realistic about the country’s prospects – but of course none of that showed in his face. He was waiting for any kind of prompt that might enable him to raise the question of Illya’s disappearance.

And then all the lights went out. Several people flicked cigarette lighters while staff rushed to find candles. Then the lights came on again… and off again in a pattern of flashes. Two short flashes, followed by long, short, long. “Someone’s playing silly buggers with the lights,” someone said angrily.

“That’s Morse code,” said another.

“Anyone know Morse by heart?”

Napoleon had already worked it out. He made his way out to the stairs and went down to the porter’s cubicle. “Where is the main fuse box for this building?” he asked.

“In the basement, sir. The door to the stairs is down there,” he said, pointing down the hallway. “Someone’s gone for the key.”

Napoleon ran down the hall and, using a small plug of explosive, broke the lock and opened the door. At the bottom of the stairs he flashed his cigarette lighter around and called softly, “Illya?... Illya, is that you?”

<><> 

Having no idea where he was, and unable to see anything in the Stygian darkness, Illya made very slow progress among the obstructions, and could only hope for light if not enlightenment. He could hear rats and occasionally felt one scuttling over his feet. Once, he felt an opening in the tunnel roof above him but there was no way of climbing out; then came faint illumination from high above through a metal skylight containing thick glass, but again there was no way to climb up. He looked around and saw labels on the walls among all the cables. Some had arrows pointing to named streets – streets that he recognised as belonging to a very select neighbourhood. He moved on and in the dark, his fingers touching the wall, he felt a metal structure. A ladder, at last.

He pulled himself up, all the while checking the air above him with his hand for fear of braining himself, until he came to a narrow opening all but full of the cables that writhed beside the ladder. Precariously perched and gripping the ladder with one leg, he tried to push the heavy, nightmarish mass aside to make space for his slim body to slide through. It was impossible; he’d have to get in among them and wriggle like a fish.

Just when he thought he might die there, caught and crushed by the powerful tentacles that occupy subterranean London, he finally fought free and lay, with a beating heart and breathing heavily, on the floor of another duct. Feeling around, he found another hole through which one thick tentacle had insinuated itself; a hole just wide enough for a body. He took a breath, squeezed through and found himself on the floor of what appeared to be a large closet, dusty but relatively clean. He could see faint light under a door – locked, of course – but it was enough. The cable fed a large metal fuse box which occupied most of one wall, and on which he could faintly see that some wag, who should have known better, had written (and misquoted) “Section 5 – a bright light in a naughty world”. Thus enlightened, and deeply gratified, he now knew where he was and whose attention he might be able to attract. Opening the box, he found switches for the electrical circuits in different parts of the building and one large red switch which would plunge the whole building into darkness.

<><> 

**Dénouement**

“Illya, is that you?”

“I’m in here,” he called, knocking on the closet door.

There was a fizzing sound and a flash, and the door opened.

“We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” said Napoleon as Illya emerged. “People will get suspicious. Maybe I ought to take you into custody – should I subdue you?”

“Is asphyxiation your weapon of choice?” said Illya, wrinkling his nose at the scent of cologne, strong after the odours of the tunnel.

Napoleon looked him up and down. “Speak for yourself, I smell a lot better than you do, filthy. What have you been up to? And how on earth did you get in there?”

“I’ll tell you, but first I need a drink and something to eat. I’m starving.”

<><><> 

Napoleon led his captive up out of the basement and presented his distinctly unsavoury prize to the assembled agents, who were understandably annoyed. “This is meant to be a secure establishment. How did he even get in there?” someone said.

Illya looked this rather large individual up and down. “Through a very small aperture in a cabling duct,” he said. “The tunnels under here are full of cables, and they stink.” This last comment was superfluous judging from the expressions on the faces of those standing – at a distance – around him. He continued, “They are also dark – there was no way of telling where I was, so I climbed the first ladder I came to, and one of the cables from the tunnel led into the fuse box in your basement.”

Several voices were raised suggesting that the intruder needed to be taken into custody.

“No, no,” said Napoleon. “No need for that. Illya’s a fellow UNCLE agent.”

“I was abducted this afternoon and escaped down a drain,” said Illya. “When I came up here, it was quite by chance.”

“By chance? A likely story!” someone scoffed.

An older man looked almost approving and muttered, “We did that at Colditz,” but was ignored.

“We’ll need to secure that area,” said another, angrily. 

“It’s time we moved into better quarters,” said another.

“I’d like to know who abducted him.”

“So would I,” put in Illya.

“The other question is, where was he being kept, and why?” said Napoleon, asking a question that was unlikely to be satisfactorily answered.

“Can I have something to eat now?” said Illya.

<><> 

In an office on an upper floor, they sat round a table. “Who did you have tailing me today?... yesterday, I mean,” said Illya, slightly cleaned up and eating his way through a plate of canapés. “Did he tell you where I was so you could abduct me? I’ve still got a lump on my head.”

“There must have been someone else in that pub listening in,” the MI5 man said smoothly. “Our man saw it happen, but was too late to stop them.”

Unconvinced, and not mentioning that the journalist had observed and reported it to UNCLE London, Napoleon said, “Who were they? Why didn’t you inform me?”

Not responding to the second question, the MI5 man said, “We suspect it was a far-right group – it could have been the National Socialist Movement, for instance. They’ve got candidates in the election.”

Unlikely as this was, MI5 headquarters wasn’t the place to dispute the suggestion.

Tense discussion continued into the early hours and now the early summer dawn was breaking. Illya looked all in, and Napoleon wanted to get him back to the hotel.

“We shall probably want to talk to Agent Kuryakin again. You may not leave London until we give permission,” they said before allowing them to leave.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” said Napoleon. The phrase was unfamiliar to the British agents who took it to be merely an Americanism for “I agree.”

<><><> 

At around noon, there was a knock at the hotel room door. Napoleon was up and dressed, fortunately. Illya, still asleep, woke with a snort and lifted a tousled blond head to watch Napoleon go to the door.

“Mr Waverly!”

“Mr Solo,” said Waverly, entering. “Mr Kuryakin,” he added, now seeing Illya sit up and attempt to look respectable.

“What are _you_ doing here, sir?” asked Napoleon.

“I am going to tea with the Head of the Family Firm this afternoon. You’d better fill me in on what you have achieved – or not achieved,” and, looking meaningfully at Illya who was blinking sleepily, added, “Shouldn’t you get up, Mr Kuryakin?”

Napoleon began to explain as Illya leapt from the bed and retired to the bathroom. He emerged in fairly short order, with a towel round his waist, and Waverly said, “I hope you brought another suit with you. I understand you ruined one yesterday.”

“I think it’s been cleaned, sir,” said Illya looking hopefully for confirmation at Napoleon, who nodded.

“Good. There’s too much gratuitous damage to clothing in Section Two. Get dressed, Mr Kuryakin, we’re going out for lunch.”

Illya dressed quickly in the cleaned but slightly battered suit. “Will that do, sir?” he said.

Waverly looked up. “Straighten your tie,” he said, examining his subordinate. “Turn round.” Illya dutifully revolved. “Hm. I suppose that will have to do. Too late for a haircut. Can you do something about your shoes?”

“Where are we going?” Illya asked, bending to rub a far from respectable handkerchief over the offending footwear.

“Simpsons in the Strand – I used to go there a lot at one time,” said Waverly reminiscently. “Before you were born, of course. When I was a boy, they used to say you could get a good game of chess there – but not now, sadly.”

<><> 

Grieved to hear that, in these hallowed portals, women were not allowed to dine in the panelled dining room at lunchtime, Napoleon watched his fellow male diners. They were, to a man, more interested in the election results than in savouring Simpsons’ famous roast sirloin of beef and saddle of lamb. Their conversation was all speculation on the previous day’s voting and whether there was any chance of a change of government. It was that kind of clientele. Illya’s interest in the subject being solely professional, he was more single-mindedly engaged with the contents of his plate and listened only abstractedly to his partner and his chief as they discussed it.

“We may have to keep a close eye on developments, if the result is as expected,” Waverly was saying.

Napoleon nodded. “There’s quite a lot of international comment about what we’ve been investigating, like the episode at the airport – that might be enough to cool things, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” said Waverly.

“What does the Head of the Firm feel about the, um… difficult employee?” said Illya, who had now mopped up the famous gravy remaining on his plate and was sitting up and taking notice.

“That’s what I hope to discover later this afternoon. My assumption is that he is likely to be reprimanded – can’t sack him, of course, he’s something of a fixture. It’s difficult with family firms, you know.”

After the kind of pudding beloved of English schoolboys and hungry Russians, they ended the meal with coffee, not particularly good even in this establishment. To the surprise of his agents, Waverly then paid their bill. “I will see you gentlemen back at the hotel this evening,” he said as they rose to leave.

The Commissionaire hailed a taxi for him, opened its door for him, and it drove away, leaving the two agents alone on the street. “Cab, sir?” said the Commissionaire.

“No, I think we’ll walk, thanks,” said Napoleon and they set off down the Strand. As they passed Charing Cross Station, they saw that startling news placards had been installed.

<><> 

Waverly, chatting to the garrulous driver, looked out of the taxi windows along the old familiar route along the Strand. As they passed the station, it became clear that any conspiracy to bring down a newly-elected Labour government had become redundant. All the newspaper placards were shouting the same thing. Against all the odds, the Tories had won. Labour had lost the election and the Prime Minister so disliked by his enemies was now out of office.

“At least we shall _both_ be able to relax and enjoy our meeting, now,” he thought, as the cheering driver swung his cab flamboyantly round Trafalgar Square and through Admiralty Arch.

<><><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on witness reports of historical events – some disputed, but probably true – that occurred between 1968 and 1974 and which are much compressed chronologically here. 
> 
> Dean Acheson, at West Point 1963, made the still relevant comment, “Great Britain has lost an Empire and has not yet found a role”.


End file.
